


Pottery Wheel

by OMDrawings



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, F/M, M/M, Pottery Shop, Priests, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 08:56:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OMDrawings/pseuds/OMDrawings
Summary: Within the bustling city rest a shop holding pottery and maps. It’s owners a married duo simply seeking the luxury of one another’s touch.But some nights, all they need is the other's comforting presence.





	Pottery Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> First fic on here (technically, that I don't want to take down). Decided to do a short, sweet Healing Arrow story I had come up with on a sick night.  
> Mostly a 17th century themed story, critiques most appreciated!

Tender hands rolled over the span of parchment, careful not to smudge any of the fresh ink upon it. They’d worked the material a million times over with the care of a mother handling her kin. Every detail preserved, every stroke crisp in black.

The quill used upon the surface was dipped back into its abyss, the paper elevated ever so slightly to allow its maker to adjust the candlelight as to spot any mistakes. There were none. This craft had been carried out so many times by steady hands he knew it impossible that there would be any trace of a hiccup. But out of habit, the work was scanned.

 _Perfection_.

A sigh of exhaustion left stressed shoulders to slouch. Five maps had been completed, each would sell by the end of the week to a seaman keeping his vessel docked in the marina. More would be needed, more than the five maps he’d already crafted. But not tonight.

It hadn’t even become apparent at how tightly Hanzo had his hair pinned up until he stood to breathe. Despite its form, rebel strands still poked out at his widow’s peak. Cursed things. Not even pins managed to keep the strands down at times.

With a glance out the window, the moon shone high in the sky. Midnight. Another sigh, this time for his mistake at losing track of time. The candlestick resting atop the desk was lifted, swiftly brought along Hanzo’s person towards the storefront. A single candle burned defiantly in the darkness, right over the doorway. He’d require a stool to reach it; why he hadn’t removed the damned thing before puzzled the man to no end.

Rather than waste energy in retrieving a stool, Hanzo simply took a hand-fan from one of the displays to blow it out. A new spot of shadow settling over the wick, calloused hands returned the fan to its proper spot before shuffling his tired feet towards the stairs. Only he didn’t proceed to the living area above. A soft yellow glow halted his proceeding. From where other than the cellar – the pottery room. It seemed someone else couldn’t rest at this hour either.

*

Descending into the room of heat and clay always concerned Hanzo. Each time he went to check on the room, he knew just what he’d find: Tired cerulean eyes just under a ponytail of blonde hair, dainty palms smeared with clay, and foot steadily keeping the pottery wheel turning. Tonight, he found just that.

At first, the woman didn’t seem to notice his reserved approach. She never did, though. Her piercing blue orbs were always focused on the piece she was working on, gracefully pulling to shape the Earth into elegant vases, bowls, cups, or plates. Only when Hanzo brought a stool behind her, arms gliding against hers to cup the back of her palms did she notice. Slowing when he breathed her name.

“Angela,” Hanzo spoke her title as if speaking a prayer, “It is late, heart. Please, come with me to bed. You’ve worked hard enough today. I fret you will work your fingers to the bone at this rate.” Although they were pressed together, she didn’t stop the wheel. It spun around, slower than before but still going. Still allowing her slightest movement to crease the watering vase her hands were shaping.

“One more for the night. I promise to join you in bed once I finish this vase and bathe,” There was no space between them, only heat. For a breath Angela leaned back into her partner’s chest, leaving a ghost’s kiss on his jaw. She was stubborn when it came to her crafts, always getting caught up in her work – in the details. But so did he. “Why don’t you aid me in finishing?” It was less of a question in his ears and more of an invitation. How could Hanzo not remain there, swapping warmth with the keeper of his heart as her eyes longed for his company?

So there they stayed, locked to the wheel as it spun around and around.

Some couples their age may view the labor of crafting individual items to be a chore, more so than hard labor that came from the ports or plantations. Some nights, it felt that way. Some days the rent seemed too much, the question of moving to a different district came to mind. But on days like these, quiet nights reinforced their choices to stay. There were no sores to complain of within the home of the Shimada’s. Every second shared locked in the act of sculpting was akin to the intimacy that conspired in the bedroom. Within minutes their breaths were synched, hands working as one to shape the vase tall and wide.

Angela perpetually took lead in those acts. She was the sculptor, he the illustrator. Yet their hands spoke different stories. Pale skin fitted nicely on Angela’s frame, lithe fingers with healthy nails went without calluses despite the years of work she had with the terra cotta. Not a hair on her knuckles to disturb the brick. Hanzo’s were firm, wider in natural build with rough skin formed from years of labor at young age. But his hands never shook like he believed they should have. Perfect for etching the crisp lines of a map.

Their joined bodies shivered in the presence of one another. The proximity was non-existent. Nothing existed outside of each other and the wheel. Its hypnotic turning lulling the two into rhythm. Every faint click of a rotation drove their hearts to flutter. Could they get any closer?

With a predatory growl, they did.

In a deliberately slow pace, Hanzo brought his teeth down upon his partner’s supple neck. Teething his mark into her flesh, biting with the notion in mind not to damage her fragile skin. All he wished to do was deepen his claim on her. Just to ensure she was reminded of her loyalty to him. His bites were consistently in the same spot; three inches above her right collarbone. That three inches of skin suffered the greatest offense of Hanzo’s mouth. When they’d first married, he never showed interest in involving his teeth to her body. It’d only been after Angela verbally gave permission to him courting her did Hanzo become so bold. Every day, no matter the time, he would agitate that spot. Sometimes though bites, others with just sucking gently on the mark, whatever prompted it to remain red and fresh for all eyes to see. The first time he marked her, Angela knew not of what it meant. But only until she noticed the wandering eyes of men halt at the love-bite to respectfully look away did she realize its purpose.

A moan slipped Angela’s lips. The noise just barely over a whisper, almost unnoticeable with the low groans Hanzo produced from his assault to her nape. Hanzo noticed, though. He never missed even the slightest of breaths that came from his love. “Your body burns, heart. Perhaps we should hurry to relieve you of this inflamed pressure.”

Such a hungry growl could only heat Angela’s core tenfold. Curse her husband’s low mumbles worsening her impatience to finish. Details be damned if her partner was to continue teasing her flesh ruthlessly with his teeth.

Spinning around, and around, and around.

Before either could act in drunken heat, a faint knocking sounded upstairs. At this hour? Well into the night that they of all people were receiving a visitor? Irritation manifested itself in Hanzo’s throat, his hands tensing on his loving wife’s arms. A growl vibrated as he stood from her back, leaving an empty pocket where he once sat. “It’s alright, heart. See who it is, I’ll finish up this vase and join you in bed. If I’m not there, seek me in the bathing chamber.” A chaste kiss shared before Hanzo’s reluctant departure.

Whoever came knocking wouldn't be gaining his sympathy, even if it was the Church itself.

*

Damn the saints sent to his doorstep. Two pastors stood proudly behind the shop’s threshold, clearly taken back by the uncharismatic greeting Hanzo’s stern face provided them. But they weren't really saints, not in any traditional manner as Hanzo could tell. Dressed as men of God, Father Jack and Father Gabriel gave off a feeling of intimidation rather than openness you’d expect from preachers. Not to mention their clear monopoly in the growing city both men had claimed long before Hanzo even arrived in the Americas. His shop included.

So, it seemed only fitting he give them an empty look, uninterested in any business they sought. It wasn't the time of the month to be collecting rent, surely, they could postpone any discussion on payment increase in the morning. So why were they here, in the middle of the night, while the first signs of winter manifested themselves in chilled winds and frost covering the grass?

“Ah, Shimada, I do hope we haven't disturbed your slumber,” Father Jack always spoke first in verbal exchanges, especially when they wanted to appear apologetic.

“You have only disturbed the peace within my home a handful of times, Father. Angela and I have grown used to it.” Unintentional or not, a trace venom followed his words. Saying he was annoyed would be an understatement. Hanzo could have been deep in the covers with someone he actually enjoyed the presence with, rather than speaking to two older men of God coming for unknown business.

“Do forgive our intrusion, Mr. Shimada. We wish only to bring you good news,” Strange how they nearly managed to push themselves into the shop. They always did with Angela, though. Rather, they entered under the guise of her invitation. Not tonight, though. Hanzo firmly placed himself in the threshold of the store’s front, stiff as a board with eyes of Earth peering to the pastors. Both almost looked shocked by this. Just almost. “We bring word from Jesse and Genji. It seems that they’ve finally written follow ups to our letters –” An envelope, unopened, was pulled from Father Jack’s robes. Lord help the man had to adjust his cross just to retrieve the parchment, “–Jesse writes that they’ve arrived safely in South Carolina, but there have been major delays in shipments due to slave revolts in the South. They lost half their inventory in a scuffle, but no injuries to account for.”

A breathy curse snaked from Hanzo’s lips. Genji had insisted on joining the American for this trade run. Foolishly so as Angela encouraged it. Her promising whispers made the trek sound easy, romantic even for the pair to be left alone without Genji’s interference if they so wished to have each other. All that came out of if it was Angela’s anxious pacings at nights, expressing her visions of grief to her husband. And now a delay to his brother’s return would only worsen her troubles.

“Thank you, Father. Angela will be most pleased to hear back from Genji. I assume you shared a similar feeling to McCree’s word?” Father Gabriel nodded to Hanzo’s inquiry. It was no secret the priest had adopted the outlaw as his own, what with no spouse to carry children for him Gabriel made do in the scrappy American. With a history of thievery, it amazed Hanzo how McCree hadn’t already been hung for his crimes. But Father Gabriel saw a light in his soul. Innocence labor could redeem in him. At least Jesse’s efforts were being made for the better good. He’d take religious items to sell in the deep south: bibles, crosses, candles at times. The plantation owners seemed to eat it up, or rather, the slaves at least. Conversion efforts were strong in that area of the country as of recent.

“We should be off. Best not to keep you from the missus. We’ll keep a prayer going for a healthy baby boy in your future, Shimada; as per Angela’s request.” Both pastors bowed their heads to Hanzo, he in turn returning the gesture. They waved him off in sign of their departure. “God bless.” Both Father Jack and Father Gabriel stated before turning to leave.

The Fathers always made Hanzo uneasy. There was something about them that threw him for a loop. A peculiarity to their relation. How the men would whisper to each other, discussing what Hanzo could only begin to imagine. The Catholic church they operated seemed too open. And Hanzo was Catholic. Sometimes he’d wonder if Angela could see the hesitant moves the men would show each other. Clasping their hands in prayer, sometimes together as if this would strengthen their calls to God. Or rather, just to be touching. The very idea of the unholy truths the two could be hiding sickened Hanzo to no end.

But now was not the time to digest the preachers’ secret lives. For upstairs Hanzo had a waiting wife to attend to. A new letter to read her, praying it would settle her nerves.

*

Just as Hanzo rounded the short hallway to their room did he notice the fragrance from the kitchen. Something being roasted, made sweet by seasonings in the air. Beaver. The delicate scent caught the nose of any man sent hungry by the day’s efforts, and Hanzo was no different. Although it was no salmon, Angela seemed to cook it just as fine. By the way the meat evenly cooked atop the small kindle-burning stovetop, sparingly coating the aliment in seasoning as to not disturb its natural flavor. Bless this woman.

“You spoil me,” Hanzo hummed into Angela’s hair, curling his arms about her waist in embrace. She continued as if Hanzo was simply warm air. Only acknowledging her partner’s words with a hum.

“You deserve to be spoiled. What with working so hard without your brother here to help. It’s only fair I cook you a meal every night.” The heavy cast-iron pan seemed to weigh that of a feather in Angela’s steady hands. Not bothering her so much to hinder the smirk on her lips as the heat of her spouse culminated on her backside.

A tender finger traced the golden band adorning her ring finger. She must have requiped it after bathing, neither wore their rings when working. It would get in the way.

“Who was at the front door, heart? Another drunk looking for the town’s inn?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Father Jack and Father Gabriel came by. They received a letter from McCree stating there will be a delay in their return. Some… conflict or other.”

A frown pulled at the blonde’s lips to the news. Keeping the meat over the flame, Angela moved to face her lover. He still held the envelope. “You mean to say he won’t return until the new year? Hanzo, heart, you aided in planning their route. Only a three-month trip at most. How much will it grow until he returns?” Worry leaked from her words, the warmth in those azure eyes shifted to concern. Hanzo’s arms did nothing to soothe her.

“I –It’s hard to say, heart. I’m sure they are travelling as fast as they can. The weather will play a factor in their progress, though.” He didn’t bother to mention the slave revolts. That would only worsen the situation. “I have his letter here, you can read it if you’d like.”

“You haven’t yet?”

“No.”

With little assistance the envelope was torn open by its top seam. A folded parchment spread in her open hands, brought to the candlelight nearby. Hanzo continued where Angela left off, turning the beaver to evenly cook for their dining pleasures. A laugh was stifled by her palm, eyes crinkling to the words scrawled on the letter. The sound like bells chiming to the cartographer; sweet and innocent.

“What is so amusing, heart? Surely my brother’s humor hasn’t evolved in the short months he’s been gone.” As if choreographed they swapped hands and places. Angela slid to the pan once more, handing her husband the letter daintily to take up the stove. So fluid, practiced, as if they’d done it a hundred times. They very much so could have.

Angela beamed, the blue in her orbs almost lightning to challenge the day’s sky. Her hair reflected the soft candlelight as she slightly shook her head, ponytail bouncing behind. “No, but his words are sweet. His pen strokes are getting so much better, almost as good as they used to be.” Her eyes looked off, lost in a memory of a fonder time. A past year or two neither could easily forget.

‘ _Dearest Brother,_

               I write to you to bring your fears to rest. Jesse and I safely arrived in South Carolina on the 2nd of October, three weeks behind schedule. We had been stopped by a wandering preacher. You should have seen the man: No shoes on his feet as he walked the trails, no hat to protect his head from the heat. When he spoke, it was in hymns of all things! We feared him mad, stricken by the sun’s power. Once we offered him food and clothing, he thanked us deeply, gave us marbles of gold and blessed our wagon! Jesse’s face was so amusing, brother. I regret to inform that we didn't catch his name, though. Something foreign, began with a ‘Z’. Lost him after a week of travelling with us to the night.  
               How pretty the nights are outside of the city. You can see well past the stars entirely, almost as if staring into heaven. Perhaps you and Angela could join me one year on our travels, enjoy the stars without the candle’s interference?

I eagerly await your response, Hanzo, do give Angela my prayers,

               _Genji_ ’

Hanzo couldn’t help but let an amused scoff escape his throat. All the wait, just to be told of a deranged man giving out gold of all things. More details would be needed once Genji returned, of course.

An arm snaked around Angela’s waist, snug, resting comfortably as if made to do just that: hold her close. The letter was set aside as the two settled in content silence, listening to the sounds of the night, the beaver roasting subtly. Neither could feel more at ease under midnight’s darkness surrounding their home, save for a few candle’s sparks to light their ways.

“Dearest, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the light above the door downstairs. Why is it that we had it installed there? It’s most annoying at night.” Hanzo quipped as he removed the tie on his black locks, allowing the strained hair to cascade down his shoulders. Another stress removed for the night.

“Do you not remember, Hanzo? Having that candle there makes you travel to the cellar to receive a stool to put it out. And when you come down to the cellar, I know it’s late into the night.” Curse her thinking. The memory of discussing such a simple plan flashed within Hanzo’s tired mind. Most nights, with Genji in the store, there would be no need to stay up into the darkness of night to work on products, there’d be no reason to lose track of time and grow exhaustedly lazy.

Even so, this didn't bother Hanzo. The revelation came quick, the light would remain. They’d have this conversation again in a month’s time or so, right when the days began to blend together again.

They’d stay in their port city, working hand in hand for their perfect space. Neither bothered by the preachers that came to their door during their times of intimacy, nor to be irritated by the worry their family could encroach on them. For in their little store they made maps and pottery, both doing so elegantly with the other just steps away.

Within their chests their pulse synched, mimicking the rotation of the pottery wheel. Pulling and pushing them as the days cycled through.

Around, and around, and around.


End file.
